How the Raven Crows
by butterflies-and-broken-dreams
Summary: What happens when Draco Malfoy finds exactly what he wasn't looking for?
1. The Intricacies Of Love

**How the Raven Crows**

By Queen-of-stupidity

Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass

Warnings: swear words

**Chapter One: The Intricacies of Love**

* * *

_December 13th, 2003_

_Love_, Draco notes to himself, sitting alone in that sleazy motel room (with the most-likely rat infested walls - he shudders to think about it) is a delicacy.

Yes, the sensation that everyone seems to need, (according to several muggle books, films and songs) is actually something of a cherry on top of a cupcake - (as _she_ had used to say) not entirely necessary for a successful, well-lived life, but something, most often than not, desired.

It is not something one should _expect_ to find in life, not at all, neither is it a thing that _never_ occurs (which is what his past, cynical self would say).

But it is a chance that you get once every blue moon, an opportunity not to be wasted, not like he had done, indeed, Draco Malfoy could write the book on 'big mistakes,' and when you find it - and he was well aware that it was a cliche - you shouldn't let it go.

Which sounds, for the most part, quite obsessive (one thing he had never thought he would become) but it is, if you were to examine it further - quite true.

Would you rid yourself - purposely - of a winning lottery ticket? No, you would not. (He admits in certain cases there may be exceptions, but it is an _analogy_ none the less)

You would clutch onto it - cling for dear life, not let it out of your sight - yes, he does notice that the metaphor seems slightly far-fetched/psychopathic, yet the point remains.

He, being something of a sceptic, did not think that he would ever fall in love, nor did he want to, considering the whole thing 'frivolous' and a 'waste of time,' at least, according to his Aunt Bellatrix (who somehow managed to be even more distrustful than him).

When he did, a long, long time ago (six years, he thinks miserably) he _loathed_ the feeling. Like vulnerability, exposure to heartbreak, as if he were handing the organ over to someone and trusting them not to crush it in the palm of their hand.

That's exactly what ends up happening.

Not literally, of course, otherwise he would be six feet under somewhere, in a mahogany coffin, listless, unmoving. But figuratively, love broke him, destroyed him, just like it had done to so many others and, quite frankly, it _sucked_.

If you were to meet Draco Malfoy, (which you must hope you never will) and ask him for one piece of advice - an odd question, but let us resume with the hypothetical - he would most likely respond with 'don't fuck it all up.'

As he had done, several times, in the past.

Not just within romance - although that remains central to the plot - but throughout his whole life.

He could not name you one single day he did not regret, in any shape or form, no matter how small the guilt was, there was none. No day where he had felt truly, truly happy, where he had forgotten - about his parents, about the war, about everything.

Except, perhaps, one of them.

* * *

_August 3rd, 1997_

For the first time in his life, he feels insignificant.

Hundreds of people envelope him and it occurs to him that every one of them must either be a Death Eater or a relative of one, an almost frightening thought, if he weren't one himself.

Even the Dark Lord is in attendance, which is peculiar because this ball is _strictly_ a social event between You-Know-Who worshipping Purebloods, and surely he has _Potter_ to go kill or something?

The scotch he just downed burns Draco's throat - like acid (he only drunk it to seem _mature_) as he stands there helplessly, idly staring into space and averting those snake-like eyes that watch him from the back of the room, from his _throne,_ following everyone's every move, every single action and if he weren't drunk, it would have made Draco nervous_._

His mother tells him that he is being rude, this ball is not about _him_, it is about celebrating the Dark Lord's return to power and also about finding him a suitable match, a good wife who he will _pretend_ to love.

Draco almost argues that if it is about finding a wife, then surely it is about him - but he realises that it is not.

These things - these silly little arrangements, where he must pick a girl like one selects the fattest pig from a farm - are rarely about the son, or the women in question.

No, like always, it is about his _parents_.

After all, the whole...whatever-it-was with Pansy had fallen through, which had earned him a severe reprimanding from Lucius (not that Draco could bring himself to care, of course) and currently, according to his mother, they were relying on his 'good looks' (as a Death Eater who had failed to bring himself to kill Dumbledore, he wasn't exactly the _finest_ catch).

So he dances the waltz with all the young ladies, the ones who gaze up on him with adoration while he can barely muster interest in what they're saying, he has no time for idle gossip, or who is wearing what, he just stands there and wears his plastic smile as they chatter mindlessly on until the song finishes and he moves onto the next girl and the next and the next.

Several older women too (cougars, he thinks blindly), not quite elderly, but somewhere in the midst of their thirties, either too nouveau-riche to have found a husband quite yet, or recently widowed (though that rarely comes up in conversation while they're batting their eyelashes at him and asking just _how_ wealthy he is).

An occasional relative is thrown into the mix - not as an option (though that would be perfectly horrid of his parents) but as a means of showing how _gentlemanly_ he is, his _dedication_ to the Malfoy family, which had gone from one of the most prestigious Pureblood families, to, in the words of Travers himself: 'utter trash.'

Eventually he gets sick of pretending to wander back to his 'friends' Crabbe and Goyle, who appear to be even less intelligent intoxicated and decides, that if he must be tortured, he will endure it, at least until he finds someone he can actually manage to fake an interest in.

Which is a hard feat, considering most of them can barely count to ten and just stand there, simpering (he isn't even _that_ attractive, for Merlin's sake) while he attempts to make polite small talk, mostly consisting of 'great weather we're having, right?'

Their answer, being, as always, a small nod and a giggle _far_ too high-pitched to be real.

Even though it's been pouring with rain outside for the last week or so.

There is only so much classical music one can take and Draco, by this point, is sure that he is able to play Fizzlewitz' (honestly, he marvels at the 18th century surnames) Last Requiem on the violin by now (yes, he knows that's not how it works, he say it _purely_ for effect).

The last girl - thankfully, he has endured every other in the room - he dances with that night (he had not previously spotted her by the entree table) is no different to the rest, he repeats the usual mantra of "would you care to dance?" and she gives him the standard reply, which is, of course, '_yes_.'

"What's your name?" Draco asks, twirling her into his arms.

Interesting conversation has _never_ been his finesse, but none of the other girls seemed to have minded much - silly little airheads that they were.

"Astoria." Her answer is short and curt, which surprises him, she sounds just as bored as he is, just as uncaring, a... not refreshing, per se, but unusual, quite definitely.

"I shall call you Tori for short." The face she pulls - a sort of half-grimace, half-scowl, almost amuses him (if he were capable of such an emotion).

"I'd rather you _not_. Cousin Victoria uses that nickname and cousin Victoria is a _bitch_." It's said with a twinkle in the eye, but he is still a little shocked at her language (of course, he is not adverse to swearing, he does it often enough himself, but in such a public place and for a lady as _young_ as her).

"What did you say your surname was?" Because that's all that matters in his world, isn't it? The surname, the status. Not the person inside, but how they were born, into Pureblood royalty (not literally of course, Wizarding Great Britain is very much a democracy) or scum-of-the-earth Mudblood filth.

"I didn't." She shoots him a funny look, (like _he_ is the insane one in the midst of their encounter) which serves to annoy him further. "It's Greengrass."

Or grassy green, like her eyes, he thinks, then mentally shakes himself for being a sappy, poetic arsehole - the type of person he is sworn to hate, that and those of dirty blood (though the latter is mostly due to his upbringing)._  
_

"As in...Daphne's sister?"

She smoothes down her dress - deep-sea blue ruffles (that somehow, he knows she didn't pick herself) waving slightly, all the tiny, intricate little sequins seeming to wink at him in the light from the chandelier (magically lit, obviously).

I'm nothing like her."

For a second, his lips upturn slightly and he finds himself smiling (a thin-lipped, not-quite-but-almost-happy one) at her - a rare accomplishment for a Malfoy, let alone _him_.

"Do you go to Hogwarts then?" (His fingers slightly crossing over behind her back - not that he'd admit that)

"I'll be taking my OWLS," she puts on another face, this time slightly less grotesque, "Next year." Fourth, he works out in his head, a fourth year - only two years below him...only two years below _him_.

"What house?"

"I'm sorry, are you some kind of stalker?"

He looks taken aback and she smiles at him, a genuinely warm smile that makes his insides flutter (just a little bit) and gives an answer.

"Slytherin. Same as you, I'm predicting, considering that most Death Eaters-" she points to his mark, just below his rolled up short cuff, "Come from there. And I would say," she studies his face, "Seventh year this September."

"You're very observant, aren't you?" He feels almost vulnerable, that she can tell all this information from him, uncomfortable with the way her eyes look at him so sympathetically, when he doesn't need her empathy, he doesn't need her _pity_.

He's perfectly fine on his own, _thanks_.

It's actually slightly strange, someone taking any sort of interest in him, a girl, even, usually they just drool over Potter, even the Slytherins maintain a less than healthy interest in the Gryffindor-Prince, perfect little Golden Boy who just about _everybody_ loves.

Sort of like how Draco used to be, before the Malfoy fall from power, before he became a social pariah - worse than Longbottom, with barely even his cronies to comfort him.

"Is that a problem?" She interrupts his train of thought, snapping him to attention, focusing back on Astoria, whose arm has gone from around his waist, to onto her hip, elbow bent at a slightly crooked angle.

_Fiery_, he muses, nothing like Pansy - but then, he isn't exactly looking for _her_ replacement, prettier than her too (not that that's hard) - well, she is more striking than _pretty_, more interesting than _beautiful_, with those choppy brown (the sort of colour coffee might take, if one were to compare it to something) locks that almost (but not quite) reach her shoulders, so very different to her sister's bouncy blonde waves.

A slightly lighter (and he doesn't mean to notice, because she is _nothing_ like his ex-girlfriend) shade than Pansy's.

Which is the end of his thought of contrast, because it's not like he wants to associate Astoria with dating, he's known her for all of five minutes for Merlin's sake, she could be a raging sociopath for all he knows and from his current impression, that seems rather likely.

Then again, it's not like he doesn't know anybody else like that.

Several of them, in fact.

He also takes in (not like he's _looking_) that slim frame, short, lean - a whole lot smaller than him, (but then again, he's fairly tall - around 1.75 metres, if he remembers correctly) and those delicate, petite little hands - truly, a Pureblood's - as in, somebody who has never done any work in their life, not that he's complaining, his are almost exactly the same (if it weren't for Quidditch).

"No, I mean - "

"Don't bother _arguing_." She gives a small, as-if-nonchalant (but he is fairly adept at reading lies, being surrounded by people who tell them his whole life) shrug. "It's not like anyone _here_ ever apologises for anything anyway."

It's quite politically incorrect, (oh how he laughs at the irony) given the surroundings, just about the first attack on Purebloods he's heard in a while and secretly (somewhere very deep down) he admires her audacity to self-deprecate (he's done it often enough himself) and take down almost everybody in the room - but it's also something that would get them both killed, if someone overheard.

Especially considering the Dark Lord - their fearless, all-knowing leader with the power to murder in a heartbeat is sitting at the other end of the room, monitoring them, all of them.

"Do you want to _die_?" He hisses under his breath, slightly harsher than he intended, but still, he's worried, not just for him, for both of them. "If someone had overheard you say that, then - "

"It's true." Her hand slides back around him, once again moving to the beat of the music (composed, if he remembers correctly, by an extreme Pureblood elitist, around Grindelwald's time, not that there would be anything different of course). "We're all such _terrible_ snobs.'

There is no denying it, but sure as hell, Draco tries his best. "Not all - "

"Really?" The tone is cutting, sharp, cynical, (all the things that _he_ is supposed to be) which, he supposes, he has come to associate her with - rather like Severus Snape (who is standing alone in the corner, guarding his drink - which, if Draco squints, is firewhisky - with a sort of uncertain aura).

Did he seriously just link a potential-romantic-match to _Snape_?

"If all of the people in this room aren't as...upper-class as you say, how do you explain the whole table designed _specifically_ for Hors D'oeuvres and Caviar? And how they're very," she shoots the place in question a quick glance before continuing. "Nearly out?"

Which he can't help but agree with - their house elves nearly died from exhaustion setting out all of the food (including lobster and black forest gateau - as Astoria would later smugly point out).

"There are others here who wouldn't take too kindly to your words." It doesn't mean to come out as a threat, more of a _suggestion_, but it sounds slightly intimidating, at least to his ears.

Yet all she does is toss out that smirk (the sort that says 'I'm so much better than you Draco Malfoy'). "Cowardice isn't really a turn-on, you know."

"Neither is being a - " he pauses, reflecting on the repercussions. His mother would be furious at him if she found out he had used the word (even though he could think of one about ten times worse). But she, she had used it already herself, and though there was a slight double standard when it came to that word, he gets the feeling that Astoria Malfoy won't particularly mind. "Bitch."

"Good thing I possess neither of those traits then." Those meadow-green eyes twinkle at him softly.

"Why are you here, if all of us are Pureblood snobs?" he asks, even though he promised himself he wouldn't do this, he wouldn't get involved with any of the problems of the girls he danced with, he wouldn't get attached to any of them - because it's dangerous to do that, to care about someone, because it is like doing drugs for the first time.

He can't stop himself from doing it - caring, empathising, _feeling,_ again, again and again until he overdoses - crumples, obliterates, with nothing left of him but two cracks of something he never thought he had.

It's better to be how he normally is - cold, calculating, so jaded he can barely bring himself to get up in the morning, face the rising sun and the pathetically joyful birds that tweet and chirp outside his window.

From his own experience, if one is to have expectations, they are to be disappointed.

It's practically a fact of life - that it fails everyone, time and time again until they stop hoping for victory, stop looking for that little cherry on the top of the cupcake, because the likelihood is: the little engine that could probably couldn't and if he had accepted that, the blow of defeat would be far, far less.

Believing in yourself, something, or someone else, is delusion.

"For the same reason as you," she looks at him again, that wise little look she's been giving him all night, as though she knows all his secrets - maybe she does. "To wear a fake smile and keep up pretences."

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, The Little Engine That Could (or couldn't) or any of those muggle films, books, or songs that state you need love (cough...The Beatles), oh or this cover image (though I edited it myself).

A/N: So this is a new multi-chapter that I'm working on, based on something I wrote a while ago, but _very_ heavily edited. There was an _incredible_ panic when I thought I'd delete the whole of the prologue, but thankfully, it had only been 'cut' so I re-pasted it.

Any reviews are appreciated, thanks!


	2. Letters

**How The Raven Crows**

By Queen-of-Stupidity

**Chapter Two: Letters**

* * *

_13th December 2003_

What you must, first and foremost, learn about this tale is that it is _not_ a love story.

It may contain romance, yes, (both aspects - the fairytale and the horror story) but that does not make it one of those sappy muggle novels that _she_ used to stuff under her bed and pretend she never read (ugh, forgive the rhyme) and it isn't one of those anti-love stories, the type that, after reading, leave you utterly depressed and put off from engaging in affairs with either people or animals (whatever floats your lonely little boat).

The story at hand actually revolves, as other great narratives in the past have done, around the superficialities of the rich and the ever-looming (if one could use that term still, a better phrase would be ever-present) war, at which they would both fight, for opposite sides and yet still end up sitting alone together, crying and laughing and hugging at the end of it.

Such is the way of the human race, muggles and wizards alike, where, at the end of the day, they can come together and forget their petty little differences, unite as _one._

Or so she would have him believe.

That was (_is_) always their dissimilarity, her ultimate _faith_ in humanity, while he preferred to remain bitter, judging, doubt everything that hadn't been proved to be true, so narrow-minded, so dreadfully critical of the universe around him and that (and his incredible, incredible cowardice) was their (or his, more accurately, he was the one who screwed everything up) downfall, in the end.

It would never be _her,_ no, he was too in - infatuated, he corrects himself, for that, besides, she had the common sense and the capability to carry a relationship, by herself, most of the time, while he was off being a complete, utter dick, like always.

If she were here right now (about as likely as Him returning from the dead, ever since Draco royally fucked things up) she would tell him to keep his chin up, not to be so hard on himself, to have a little confidence and all the other cliches she was so fond of.

Except she wouldn't, because she hates him now, loathes him to his rotten core (like that apple you might've been meaning to throw away for three weeks now, but haven't) quite justly, in his opinion, but then, his opinion of himself has been awful, ever since sixth year.

Draco wonders what happened to that cocky little kid who thought the world was his oyster.

Sometimes, he misses him.

He rustles around in his pockets (gradually growing more disgusted by the filth that lurks there - a half eaten chocolate cauldron, for one) before he finds them.

Draco remembers (and if he could any more, he would smile) telling her he had thrown them into the fireplace, (or something along those lines, as a seventeen year old, he wasn't quite so eloquent) outright _lying_ to her - not that he had never committed _that_ act before and, surprisingly (because she always had that sort of sixth sense) she had believed him, never to discover that he had kept them all those years.

That would become a sort of ugly habit of his - fabricating the truth. Because fiction is so much more pleasant than the cold, bitter reality that they face every day, the good version of Draco Malfoy, the one who never tried to kill Dumbledore, who didn't bully Harry Potter (and several other Gryffindors) through Hogwarts, who didn't fight for the dark (if you could compare, both did awful, awful things that night) side in the battle, who didn't -

He wonders, briefly, why he is referring to her in the past tense - after all, she is not dead, not like the others he had known - Crabbe, his Aunt Bellatrix, Goyle's passing, a year ago next week, even _He_ himself had fallen at the hands of Harry Potter, reminding them all of their own mortality, that they too would be like him, some day.

Turning the old, faded pieces of parchment over in his hands, he begins to read.

* * *

Dear Astoria

I had such _fun_ dancing with you the other night. I do hope you come to the next Malfoy ball, in roughly two weeks (invitation attached).

Yours,

Draco

* * *

Draco,

Mummy make you write thank you notes to the girls you danced with Malfoy?

Most certainly _not_ yours,

Astoria

* * *

Astoria,

How did you know?

Draco

* * *

Draco,

It's dreadfully obvious, can you seriously not tell? That letter was about as forced as your smile - if you catch my drift, honestly Malfoy when you try to look happy you actually seem a little...constipated.

Mine,

Astoria (Greengrass to you)

* * *

Greengrass (as you wish),

My writing is perfectly fluid, _thank you_ and not at all forced (except by my mother). Also totally polite, which cannot be said for you, with your incredibly _vulgar_ little comment, which is, in no way whatsoever, true.

Draco

* * *

Malfoy,

Well let's face it, you're no Charles Dickens. Oh, right I forgot - your Pureblood snobby arse won't know who the hell _he_ is. Isn't being involved with a narrow-minded society (on your words) such _fun?_

Greengrass

* * *

To the politically-obsessed-so-called-_rebel_,

Thank merlin I burn these letters once I get them (nothing personal, they just clutter my room). If my father had found that, he would have had a fit.

Why do you hate us all so much anyway? Isn't it a little hypocritical, considering that you're a member of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?

Draco.

* * *

To the preppy-little-loser,

So? He would have been mad at me, not you and let's face it - you Malfoys can't lay a finger on me, not after the events last year. Face it, the Greengrass family finally rank higher than you, and even if that letter had been found, nobody would have believed your father anyway.

Sorry.

As for the book - like I actually care about the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Which, by the way, was written something around sixty years ago, making it almost entirely obsolete (for example, the Abbotts are now no longer considered Pureblood) and irrelevant today.

From,

The-politically-obsessed-_definitely_-a-rebel,

Astoria.

* * *

Greengrass,

Ignoring the comments on my family, do you realise that between us we've sent nine letters in the past week?

Seriously considering changing my use of time,

From,

Not-a-preppy-little-loser,

Draco

P.S: Be at the ball. All the others are such bores.

* * *

_August 10th 1997_

The next ball is far more relaxed, for the reason that the Dark Lord is, as Lucius Malfoy puts it, _'away on business_', therefore unable to attend, his raised chair in the background empty, vacated.

With that constant feeling like somebody is watching your every move gone and his mother and father discussing 'adult situations' (which, to Draco, sounds a lot like a porno - not a thought he'd like to explore further) in the kitchen, with Mr and Mrs Rosier, (the sort of woman who would coo and grab your cheeks every time you saw her) he is, in theory, free to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Including swearing.

Of course, the other grown-ups are present - but they're all far too busy drinking (he swears he saw someone snort cocoaine) away their frivolous little insecurities to notice him, to care about what's going on in that (pretty messed-up, he admits) brain of his.

They clamour after Draco again, the girls, but this time, he refuses, rather bluntly (he swears he sees tears sparkle in their eyes) and heads over to one in particular, in the corner, sipping, (quite casually) a glass of champagne, not noticing - or at least, paying attention to her surroundings.

He doesn't even ask her this time, just sweeps her into his arms (it would be romantic, if it weren't for the time and the people around them) and begins to move his feet (he's gotten pretty good at this ballroom malarkey by now) to the rhythm of the music.

"I was rather enjoying that drink." It's not much of a complaint, more of a simple statement, at least he thinks so, designed to try and wind him up - failing, this time around.

"Is the pleasure of my company not enough for you?"

"Malfoy, I don't think the pleasure of your company is enough for _anyone_."

He smirks at her jest, ignoring the fact that it is about him, (how wondrous, if it were Potter - or some other Gryffindor swine - who had said it, he would have hexed them into blissful oblivion).

"I don't know, several of the ladies - " with which he gives a flirty little wave to the cake table, where most of the singles are stood, "seem to disagree with you."

"Daphne for one." Her lip curls at disgust, whether at him or her sister, he is unsure of, but the look - one of envy, he hopes - doesn't seem to suit her.

"What do you mean?"

"She was very jealous the other night, how you danced with me for far longer than her."

Which comes as a surprise to Draco, not the jealousy part - Daphne, as he knows, has a tendency to be quite catty, (though not nearly as much as Pansy) but for the part including him - he had always thought her to be hopelessly enamoured with the utterly-oblivious-to-the-world-around-him Nott (who happened to be asexual, at least according to Blaise).

He considers the woman at hand, her nearly waist-length (as in, she could sit on it - he always thought that it must be dreadfully painful) tow-coloured hair, so unlike her sister's own dark (yet not quite nearing black) bob, how her eyes (of, as Blaise put it when he was particularly lovesick, the purest blue) seem to sparkle far less than Astoria's, her voice without that same mellifluous quality.

That could, as he would later come to admit, make his day.

But at the time, he doesn't really want to think about that.

"Ugh, _really_?" It's probably not the _greatest_ thing to say, considering that it's her _sister_ he's talking about, Draco just needs to get across to her that he isn't interested, not in Daphne at least (he wouldn't repeat the mistake of Pansy, not in a million years).

"She isn't that bad." Astoria says, before stopping to reconsider the sentence. "Actually maybe she is."

It would make sense, Draco thinks to himself, for them (her and Daphne) _not_ to be friends, taking into account their differences, _her_ lively talkative nature, in comparison to Daphne's shy, moody (and occasionally, a little bitchy) one - which, reviewing the situation actually made her perfect for Nott, (in another life, he supposes) and their drastic contrast of opinions concerning the war (though he suspects Astoria keeps hers mostly to herself, at home).

"I'm certainly interesting company for _you_, anyway."

He pretends to be offended. "Modest, much?"

"According to your last letter - may I remind you of the _bores _comment, very ill-mannered - "

"Coming from you?"

"I'm expected to say stuff like that, you on the other hand..."

He wills himself not to flush crimson. "It's not like I find you...amusing, it's just that everyone else is so dull, that you seem like a better option...in comparison, of course."

"Right." Something in her tone suggests that she doesn't quite believe him.

But then, he doesn't quite believe himself either, being the compulsive falsifier he is, a trait he picked up from his parents and his grandparents and his great-grandparents.

It shocks him sometimes, how blandly generic he is, what a carbon-copy of his father, who he doesn't want to end up like, no way, but is terrified that is exactly what he'll do, exactly who he'll be.

It's sad, really.

"Do you believe in _love_, Draco?"

The question takes him by surprise, first by the unusual appearance of the topic, second by the outright manner in which she asks such a personal thing - especially since he's never really thought about it.

He supposes he always envisioned himself ending up with someone for their money, his parent's decision - like Pansy - rather than somebody he truly cared about. Yes, he believes in the notion, but not for him, he doesn't believe he is capable of such an emotion, at most, lust and very strong attraction.

"Not particularly, no." A further enquiry would be '_why did you ask_' but he isn't quite willing to delve into _that_ end of the pool just yet.

"Why not?"

"Have you ever met anybody...in _our_ world, who has found such a thing?" For he hasn't, as of yet, just bickering couples composed of alcoholic, depressed housewives, who repress all of their emotions (while yearning for the poor man they should have married) and 'career-obsessed' husbands, who use all the lengthy 'business trips' that they take to play away from home, probably with their wives own unhappy knowledge of the situation.

Sometimes, life just seems like an unhappy waste of time to him.

"Not yet." She rubs her chin thoughtfully, other hand keeping a steady balance around his shoulder. "But anything is possible."

"That isn't true."

"How so?"

"I'll believe in the impossible when Goyle gets a girlfriend."

Astoria gives a small giggle (real, he deduces, not like the others, who had laughed at anything and everything he said) before changing the subject. "My mother made me wear _pink_."

It's rather typical of her, to go out from the crowd, be tomboyish, not enjoy the colour every other female in the world seemed to love.

But he supposes that's what is so oddly refreshing about her, how unique a character she is - not shy and awkward, yet not catty and domineering, as so many others of her type (a certain P-word comes to mind) had chosen to take - yes, she can be talkative, yes she can be totally controversial, yes she can be a little bossy -

It's at that point he forgets where his trail of thought was heading.

Astoria inspects his face, which, to his great annoyance is blushing, before he continues. "So, er," he clears his throat again "What colour would you rather wear?"

Black, he guesses, that's the sort of alternative she would be into - the dark, angry sort of colour, daring, _domineering_ -

"Green, but Mother says it clashes with my eyes." Which just proves that you can't judge a book by it's cover, a lesson which he fails to learn repeatedly in life, reliving the mistake over and over again (but that's a later story).

"I like pink on you." It's supposed to be teasing, but it somehow (very much accidentally) comes out as genuine, the colour seems to suit her more than the blue dress, especially since all of those frills and fancies have disappeared, leaving nothing extra but a dark bow, tied (quite uncomfortably, he notes) around her waist, acting as something of a belt, sucking in her middle and making her look thinner.

He never realised women did such stupid things to seem _beautiful_.

Not that it's her decision, (the only way to make _those_ was to get married to another upper-class, affluent Pureblood, most likely your cousin) probably her mother's, because she seems to control everything in Astoria's life anyway.

That's the thing with their society, their class - it's all about power, over your wife, over your children, over other people, (a concept, he confesses, he is guilty of at school, something only Dumbledore seems to recognise) why the Dark Lord is at the top of his game, because of his superior wand skills, and the heartlessness and ease it takes him to kill.

Everyone does it, including Astoria herself, bully those weaker than them, treat them like dirt for their source of strength, source of entertainment (for some of the more sadistic) and that's the one thing he understands that she doesn't: no matter where you come from or what you do, somebody is _always_ going to hate you.

So really, there's no point in being a good person, trying to get into the afterlife, or be reincarnated into a billionaire, (karma doesn't exist anyway, look at _Him, _look at the countless innocents he had killed) because we're all going to die and that'll be that, even if you're as bloody perfect as Potter himself.

They'll always hate you, no matter what you do.

That's why he stopped trying years ago.

"You would."

"_What_?"

"That's your type. Pink girls. Girly girls who can't think for themselves."

After Pansy, he can't really _argue_, but he wouldn't say he'd date specifically _them_, he'd maybe try someone a little more like Astoria - outlandish, vociferous, _ferocious. _

Not actually her though - it's not like he _fancies_ her, maybe some other version, a safer, less complicated (because it always comes with complications, doesn't it?) type. _  
_

He wonders (very shallow, he knows) if she has a cousin he could be introduced to.

He settles for a confused (Hufflepuff-ish, not that he'd ever thought he'd _try_ to be like that) outlook instead, as if he doesn't quite understand what she means. "I didn't realise I had a type."

"You do. Everyone does."

"Well Miss Greengrass," he leans in a little further, so that his lip is brushing her ear - probably the most courageously flirty thing he's ever done, (as if he fancies himself as a Cassanova) probably the most stupid too. "What's yours?"

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

A/N: Review!

Virtual hug to SoTimeless for reviewing last (yet first) chapter, I'm glad you enjoyed! : )


	3. InterludeThoughts

**How The Raven Crows**

Warnings: as usual, swear words, but also sexual references this time around.

**Chapter Three: Thoughts/Interlude**

* * *

_13th December, 2003_

Why...he wonders...why is he so _irresponsible_? So immature? So _untrustworthy_? So fucking dumb when it comes to the matters of the heart?

He says 'matter of the heart' because _that_ word is forbidden.

He only said it to her once.

She never said it back.

That's the way they work, relationships - one is always more involved than the other, one always has the other on their brain more constantly, no matter what you might say to disprove it.

He just happened to be that person in theirs.

* * *

_August 15th, 1997._

After the second ball, things gradually worsen.

Including _His_ temper with them, due to the lack of sightings of Potter, (Draco had to hand it to him, he's rather good at the disappearing act) who had last been spotted before the first dance (it's a confusing sentence, he knows, but it makes sense after a while).

It's Dolohov and Rowle who fucked it all up, at the cafe with the three of them (the 'Chosen one,' the Mudblood and the Moron) and for a brief few seconds he was happy - not for them, but for his family - for once, they were not the ones being punished.

But then he heard their screams - thick and shrill and piercing, their bodies being slammed to the floor, heads cracking dully against the marble.

The Cruciatius Curse.

They were all made to watch.

He shudders to think about it even now, huddled up in his room, (avoiding, like always, his parents) two weeks later. But then, he's been trying not to let his mind wander to a lot of things: the war; _her;_ his impending marriage; _her_; going back to Hogwarts; _her_.

Which is hard to do when she haunts his sleep, those awfully-big green eyes following his thoughts, infiltrating his brain until he can barely stand to think any more.

Thinking hurts.

Not just because of Astoria, because of all of it, how fucked-up every single thing in his life is, how much everything right now sucks, how he can't even depend on his two supposedly best friends to help him.

(Draco doesn't realise that his problems are so typically teenager-ish, it's almost cliche)

He pulls open the wooden drawer beside his bed and takes out _it_.

The necklace.

Her necklace, the one he bought in a moment of complete insanity, that cost him...a _lot_ of galleons.

Draco has to physically force himself not to think of what Astoria would look like with nothing _but_ the piece of jewellery -

Because it's a really, really _stupid_ thing to waste his time on.

Besides, she's not even a candidate for his marriage, not like that sister of hers - who he couldn't possibly bear to wed, sure, she's rather nice to look at (not as nice as - _goddammit_!) but that voice gets annoying after a while, after the constant drone of 'so and so wore this' and 'do you like my lipstick?'

The answer being: 'yes, but I'd like it a lot more if your mouth was firmly _shut_.'

Summer seems to be slipping by and sometimes, Draco can't figure out which is worse - school, or home.

On the one hand, there is his parents.

Who seem to have a lot of secrets lately, (even more so than before) a lot of whispers, private conversations 'outside' and he could almost roll his eyes at it, because, really, what are they discussing that he ought not to know about?

After all, they've already brought him into the whole death eater mess, forced him to become a pawn in The Dark Lord's game (unless there is a piece lower than a pawn, in which case, that would be him) and their little discussions are definitely not of _that_ sort - they can barely stand to look each other in the _eyes_ most days, it's very unlikely that they're _that_ kind of affectionate (he's never even seen them hold hands).

He suddenly gets the overwhelming urge to _throw up_.

Which he does, in the waste-paper basket to the left of his bed, maybe because he really hates the thought of his parents doing _that_ together, (he shudders inside) maybe because he's actually, physically sick (that pumpkin pasty didn't seem to sit right earlier).

He read somewhere, that nausea is caused by stress and Merlin knows he has a fuck-load of it, (though he still refuses to acknowledge that there are people actually worse off than him) not like before, when he was an easy-going, careless kid.

Sure, he was a bully, but at least _he_ didn't have problems, he just caused them for others.

That's the other hand - going back to Hogwarts entails exactly that; going back to Hogwarts.

Socialising with them, the other people (if one could call them that) his age, the Mudbloods (well, not anymore, but there is still the half-bloods and the blood-traitors) and the Unintelligent Rich (is there any other kind?), none quite his _scale_.

Or, to simplify: he looks down on them, or they look down on him.

Quidditch is probably to be cancelled - after all, without the Mudbloods about a third of the other houses are missing (he never realised they wasted so much _space_) and he very much doubts that it's going to be number one on the Carrow's (he learned of their arrival from one of their 'secret gatherings') list of priorities.

As for teachers, at least that old bastard Dumbledore is gone - but then, he doesn't like to remember _that_ night.

Life has really spiralled downhill since then.

Not that he's a pessimist or anything.

It's odd, he muses, that he is the boy within the Astoria/Draco dynamic (not a relationship - never a _relationship_) and yet he is the weirdly insecure one.

Isn't _she_ supposed to be obsessing about her body and her hair and her weight? Isn't _she_ supposed to be criticising herself like he does?

Then again, he's not exactly a _genius_ when it comes to teenage girls, despite what they all may say.

Truthfully, he's only ever shagged one - the fairly obvious candidate, Pansy and he doesn't know if it was him or her, but it wasn't..._mind-blowing_ or anything. Kind of awkward, actually and of course, she was too much of a prude to do it again. Not that he'd want to.

Well, maybe he would. He's sort of desperate like that.

* * *

Dear Blaise,

Amuse me. I'm bored. No, not like that - I know what your surprisingly sick (in the aloof, rich kind of way) mind is conjuring up, but in all honesty, the only reason I'm writing this letter is because there is absolutely nothing else to do for entertainment around this place. Really, being rich is overrated.

Potter may be on the run, but at least he's having some fun while he's at it.

Also because there's a girl.

There's always a girl, isn't there? Well, I suppose, unless you're into men, like you say that Nott is (has that ever been confirmed? considering he never speaks, it's not likely for him to admit to it). You should know that, what with your torrid little love affair with the Patil girl.

Whoops. Better hope mummy doesn't find this letter, huh, Blaise?

Thats why I'm asking you, actually, because of her. I could hardly talk to Crabbe and Goyle about it, considering they've had about as much experience with women as You-Know-Who.

Though I have my suspicions about him and dear old Aunt Bellatrix.

You'd really better burn this letter now, Zabini, because we'll both get killed if someone finds this.

Back on to the subject - her name's Astoria, you know, Daphne's little sister? I don't...(what do they call it?) have a _crush_ on her or anything, I just kind of fancy her, a little.

Like in fourth year, when you were infatuated with that Delacour girl. If you don't mind me saying, it was bloody _hilarious_ when she married a Weasley.

(because, seriously, who could be attracted to one of those _things_?)

Anyway, I need your advice. You appear to be...(how do I say this without appearing to swing the other way?) skilled in the romance department, what with the number of times you've fucked Patil (I still don't approve of the Gryffindor Blood-traitor choice, by the way) so I'm asking (not begging, Draco Malfoy doesn't beg) for your help.

What should I say to her? I'm not even sure if I'm just trying to get laid or trying to achieve a serious relationship. We both know how Pansy went.

Badly.

REPLY

Draco

PS: Sorry we didn't invite you to the ball. My mother seems to think that yours is a skanky whore.

...

No offence.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

**A/N**: This was a really small chapter and I'm so sorry, for the sort-of delay as well.

Virtual hugs to:

**Guest** - sorry about that, I didn't really grow up in what people would call 'polite society' and here in the UK (unless you _are_ from the UK, in which case ignore everything I'm about to say) we don't have 'debutante balls' so pretty much all I have is nineteenth century novels, which is what I imagine the Pureblood-Wizarding-World to be like (I mean, they're so far behind in technology and they're far less progressive than us with the Mudblood thing).

Whew. That was a long response. Otherwise, thanks for the review and all the advice/praise!

**SoTimeless** - again, thank you so much for your lovely review, sorry for the long time it took to update and how little I wrote!

**aleera** - so glad you enjoyed!


	4. Rain-Dancer

**How The Raven Crows**

Chapter Four: Rain-Dancer

Warnings: swearing, sexual references

* * *

_December 13th, 2003_

He's almost a hypocrite, in the way that he demands the right to free-will, then fucks up when it comes to actually being allowed to make decisions.

Except it's not hypocrisy (or maybe it is, he's not particularly articulate) it's something else - some long, drawn-out word he can't remember, some definition of his life.

Wanting a thing so very, very badly, then when it comes to receiving it - wrecking it beyond physical repair.

Not Astoria.

Maybe Astoria. That was a sort of mutual self-destruction on both their parts, an explosion that became too big to handle, no matter how much they tried. A fatal combination of jealousy and an unwillingness to be tied down.

Or some shit like that - it all starts to bleed in together when he's drunk.

No, he remembers, their attempts at a safe, normal relationship had failed miserably, even after they gave it their all, put so much fucking effort into it.

Except there's always one who tries harder than the other, isn't there?

And it's always worst to be the former.

So he sits, today, all by his-self, yearning for a long-gone lost love, who probably doesn't think of him at all, (oh how he envies her) who probably barely remembers his name.

**D-R-A-C-O**

For 'dragon' and isn't that so-fucking-_ironic_?

Because he's the biggest coward of all of them.

* * *

_August 17th, 1997_

Yeah, he fancies her. So what? It's not like he (what's that word again?) her or anything, definitely not, considering that _that_ doesn't ex

Nobody ever gets a happy ending and he's certainly not going to get one with Astoria.

He tries to act normal (like I haven't had dreams about you naked normal) and he tries not to let it show that he's kind-of-maybe-possibly fallen for her, but when he sees her there, arms folded over her pink dress, he gets a funny pain in his chest, like his circulation is being cut off.

Yeah, he really doubts _that's_ normal. Maybe he's ill or something. He resolves to get it checked out.

"Pink again?" he mouths from across the room at her, because he can't fucking help it (he has literally no self-control) and in a flash, she's beside him (seriously though, how does she do that?) so uncomfortably close he can practically smell her breath.

Strawberries. Goddamn-fucking-strawberries. He could laugh at the cliché, if he weren't so...

Shit.

He has absolutely _no_ idea what he's feeling right now.

"Horrible isn't it?" Astoria asks, snapping him out of his trance. "I said the last one was awful, but that one didn't have a puffy skirt like this."

"The lace is nice." He curses himself for the generic, bland comment - since when has Draco Malfoy used the word _nice_? - but hopes she'll appreciate the compliment.

Which, knowing her, she won't.

"It's itchy." She gives a grimace, before letting a smirk (and oh, how it suits her) grace her features and leaning in (he squirms slightly, as her lips brush his ear) to whisper. "Daphne asked our mother to fix an arrangement with yours."

"An arrangement of what?"

"In her terms," Astoria stifles a giggle, "'Courtship' between you and her."

Courtship?

Between him - and Daphne?

He supposes it would not be too bad - after all, he would get to see her sister more often - but then, he would actually have to _put up_ with the bitch, (in plain terms) with her constant demands for money and clothes and Merlin-knows-what-else girls were interested in.

She _did_ look better than Pansy, probably less of a cow as well, yet his expectations are far too high to accept _Daphne Greengrass_ as a potential bride, rather, he would prefer -

Merlin, he's bad at this.

Draco imagines kissing Daphne, holding her hand, feeding sweet (something he's never, ever done) compliments in her ear...one day even _proposing_ and almost gags at the thought.

"Good." Astoria says, as though she can read his mind (he wouldn't be too surprised if she could). "It would be simply unbearable if you married Daphne."

His heart leaps - just a little - but he pretends to take it well, retaining that ever-suave (according to himself, at least) nature. "Jealousy is very unbecoming on you Astoria."

She shoots him a peculiar look (eyes quizzical, nose upturned) as if to say 'what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about?'

Really, he has no idea himself.

"I meant having two whiny little brats in the same household."

He turns the shade of her dress, hoping that she doesn't catch the brief moment of disappointment that flashes across his face, (because how embarrassing would it be if she did?) wishing that he had never said anything, because Astoria isn't unintelligent, she can read into subtext.

Dear Merlin, had she realised? She wasn't saying anything, just shooting a casually-awkward (if one could do both at once) glance to the window, pretending not to acknowledge him. Maybe she knew. Maybe she hated him for it.

What if she rejected him? Broke his...upper organ (which he still claims not to actually have) right there, in front of everybody, relishing in the exact moment that he knew -

"It's raining."

His thoughts are interrupted by her comment - rather shocking, for her, no quip, no deep, philosophical outlook on the shittiness of life, no '_do you like me, you freak_?' (thankfully, he notes, she appears to remain ignorant) just a simple statement that his head can't seem to wrap itself around.

"So?"

"Let's go ruin this dress."

Before he has time to argue, she pulls his hand (the hand he is so used to holding to dance with her suddenly feels different somehow), out of the ballroom door, through the deserted corridor, out through the glass door into his garden, where the water is splashing down, thick and heavy onto the green of the grass (he chuckles to himself at the pun).

Where he leans against the door and (with a quick impervious) watches as she spins around in his garden, eyes rolled back toward the sky, feet almost dancing onto his porch.

She kicks off her shoes - he is impressed at how well her feet stand the chill - and splashes around in the raindrops, dress quickly becoming coated in mud, a thick layer of it dusting her back, her front, her skirt, her...chest.

"Wow. Your parents are going to _love_ this." Draco calls out and she grins at his sarcastic tone and simply tugs her hair free from it's brown plait, tossing away the diamond-studded hairband - that probably cost a fortune - into the nearby hedge, as if it were a bug, or something of equally little importance.

He'd find it later (a lot later), snap the useless thing in half, purely because it reminded him of her. It even smelled like her (even after a year) for fuck's sake, that faint, vaguely- fruity smell - like strawberries and he couldn't stand that.

Knowing that some part of her - no matter how small - still remained with him, having some vague memory of a time where she could have, might have loved him back.

Slowly, his eyes close in blissful peace - because, he could stay like this forever and ever and ever - his own head settling against the door, so very unaware of the world around him.

Almost as if there isn't a war.

It is interrupted, as all good things are, by his father, banging at the door, face pressed up against the window (like some sort of madman, Draco thinks detachedly) yelling his name, over and over until finally he gives in and opens it.

"I've been looking for you." Lucius says, nearly breathless with rage (he's starting to take on a purple tinge). "You need to come back inside. There's people I want you to meet."

Draco casts a quick glance back at the hedge, where Astoria has disappeared into, out of sight (if one didn't look for the muddy-pink flash of her skirt) and lets out a small sigh.

"Can't it wait?"

It's disobedient he knows, sure to anger his father, but really he picked _now_ to cast him some attention, now, just as Draco was beginning to enjoy these stupid 'formal gatherings?'

"No." Lucius casts him a peculiar look (why is everyone doing that lately?) and pulls hipm, quite roughly through the door and marches him, in silence back to the ballroom.

The man who greets him is familiar-looking, but not so recognisable that Draco could place a name. He doesn't believe he's actually _met_ him before, only seen him in something, or somewhere.

"Draco." His accent is heavily French, (if Astoria were here, she would laugh) but also rather sharp, with a bitter quality to it. Then again, they all talk like that, don't they? "Your father has told me so much about you."

Has he? Draco didn't think that his father knew he _existed_ up till that point. "And you might be?"

He gives a tiny chuckle. "I believe, in your country, they call - Minister of Magic?"

Oh. No _wonder_ his father wanted to befriend this man.

"And this - " he continues, "is my pride and joy, my daughter: Jeanette."

The pieces all come together as the blonde steps forward and curtseys - his parents wish to parade him around like a common mule, the prize pig at the fairground, show them all that the Death Eaters aren't just evil, conniving, pillaging villains, that they're actually capable of love and _family_.

Because that was what would win support, clearly.

If they could partner the two - Draco and Jeanette - wouldn't that be even better? Having a son that they could be proud of, a son that was married to the daughter of the most powerful man in France, who could manage to persuade the French to ally with the Dark Lord?

So he takes her arm and dances with her - per his father's orders - but he doesn't enjoy it, because it, like almost everything else - is not _his_ choice.

They talk in French, polite, neat Pureblood conversation, until they come to the subject of the Dark Lord. Of course, she supports him, she's very eager for the cause - eradicate all muggleborns and blood traitors as fast as possible, after all, she points out, magic is might. She talks about back home in Paris, where there is muggle baiting on the streets, yet she acts enthusiastically about it, her favourite sport, her method of entertainment.

He feels sick to the stomach just listening to her.

And then he spots Astoria over Jeanette's shoulder, dress now in ruins, being dragged out of the room by her mother, yet she's silent, wordless, only shooting Draco a glance before she disappears out of the ballroom.

Pity, that's how she looks at him, as though she pities him, that look she gave him so few weeks ago when they had first met, at the first of these stupid, pretentious balls that Father makes them have.

Nausea sweeps through him once more.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

A/N: Sorry it's short again.

Virtual hug to **SoTimeless** for reviewing again, really glad you're enjoying. : )


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